


silver lining in the sky

by aldonza



Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [6]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Erik (Phantom of the Opera), Implied/Referenced Torture, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Pharoga - Freeform, Whump, rosy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24451672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: The Shah calls for Erik’s execution. And the Daroga makes his choice.Sequel to "white silence."
Relationships: Darius & The Persian, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Little Sultana, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574986
Comments: 20
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are! The 6th story of the series:
> 
> "Five times the Daroga watched the little Sultana indulge in her favorite hobby- torturing the magician- and the one time he did something about it."
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's followed me through this series (words cannot describe how much it means to know people other than me are interested in it!)

He flipped on his side, the fire of fresh blood gushing along his skin. Teeth ground together and he shoved back a cry of pain. Nadir crawled to his knees, hands scraping cold stone, dirt beneath his nails. He stood and fell, slammed back by the cuff around his ankle, its rusting chain buried in the solid wall behind.

And forced to stare at the bars of his cell, Nadir cursed, the word a sputter of breath in the dark. 

He lay flat, exposed backside in the air, no doubt crusted with blood and the remnants of the new daroga’s whip. Twelve lashes for his transgressions, and an undetermined stint in prison for his attempt on the vizier’s life.

Nadir curled his fists, knuckles white as he recalled that wretch of a man in his grip. He had fully meant to smash the vizier’s head in, and he felt not a shred of guilt. He thought he should be horrified by this murderous intent, but he was only further compelled to imagine the vizier's blood on his hands. 

There was no point in guilt now. He would not survive, and even if he did, what could he return to? They had taken his title, his land, his men, all that he (and his father before) had devoted his life to. He was no one, a disgrace of an officer and a failure of a man.

He tasted not blood on his lip, but salt, tears trailing their way down his battered face. In the end, they were to die for nothing. _You will have a wonderful wife and happy children in your home,_ Erik had said.

And he’d walked right into the vizier’s hands, perhaps under the delusion that it would push Nadir to live a full life in the light. And perhaps he was right- perhaps it would have ended there if Nadir had not remembered all that he’d wished to do (he had promised to shield Erik from all harm, to keep him away from the court’s clutches), all that he had not done to prevent that moment (for Nadir had stood by, again and again as he watched Erik broken every which way), the weight in his heart, and-

_“Forget your poor, unhappy Erik,” he’d said, guided by the softest smile upon his lips._

-the awareness (still lost in doubt but hard as earth nonetheless) that had festered and burned until he could no longer deny- he loved Erik, loved him in spite of it all and in spite of himself.

He’d wanted to fight for Erik until the very end, to throw himself between the man he loved and the world that would stop at nothing to grind him into dust. 

And he’d failed. All his efforts to patch Erik’s wounds, stitch his scars, build him up, had been for naught. He had only been delaying the inevitable, too arrogant to accept fate’s call: Erik would die, he had been born a dead man and death had finally come to collect its price. 

Even so, Nadir could _not_ (would not) forget his Erik. And he could not accept his fate with grace. Between the grief, he felt a brewing rage, something stirring under the furrows of his ravaged back. If Erik was to die, then why could it not be swift? Why allow him to linger under the Sultana’s thumb? Why watch him break and bleed and break again, if only death awaited in the end?

And once more, he thought it would not have come to this, if the vizier had left well enough alone, if the Shah had ruled the Sultana the way he ruled the rest of them, if the (once) daroga had never placed so much trust in his majesty. Rapid betrayal clawed at his chest, raging at him to kill first and later mourn. If death came for Nadir now, he would take the vizier with him- he would slaughter that man and find the Sultana next, and if it damned his immortal soul, then _so be it._

He heaved, a long breath released.

With it, the rage escaped and he was left with a sickly heart. He had never condoned murder before, much less taken pleasure from such an act. Perhaps once, he’d wished to shoot that English major dead, but even then- the thought had passed once the moment did. He shuddered. 

It frightened him, more than the thought of his own demise- the fact that he’d wanted to kill. And laugh as he did.

Was this how the magician had once felt? Did the very same rage travel through that young man’s veins as he killed in the court’s name? Had Nadir been too quick to judge?

He chuckled, lost in sweat. The blood again dripped as he pressed a bare shoulder to the dusty floor. And before his laughs could turn to sobs, Nadir twisted them into a quiet sigh. No, this murderous rage would not change a single thing. It would not change the past, would not spare Erik’s life, would do nothing but bring more death.

And there was enough blood on all their hands. Perhaps Nadir simply wished for this torture to end. If death wished to claim him now, he would gladly go.

A rattle of keys made him look up. A guard appeared behind the bars, approaching with a lantern in his grip. 

_Come to beat me again?_ Nadir frowned, hoping the man would not see how parched he was. He could not remember when he had last been given water. But when the guard crouched, he saw the light touch the features of his face. 

Nadir blinked, unsure if the blood loss had damaged his head. The name was on his tongue, but he did not dare speak.

“Master,” the man said lowly, “can you move?”

It was no hallucination. The lantern was too bright and the man’s shadow too near.

His lips parted. “Darius?”

The servant nodded. And Nadir felt his limbs go weak from sheer relief.

“Darius, how?”

The keys rattled again. “We don’t have long, Master. Once I free you, listen carefully.”

* * *

Once, the Shah-in-Shah (the love of her life, then) had written her a poem. His calligraphy was beautiful, as fanciful as a king’s brush was. He’d scented the paper with rose and pressed petals of flowers into each corner. _A blossom of fire,_ he’d called her, _a rising flame, lovely from afar and ruthless up close._

She had pretended to enjoy the poem, smiled and kissed him and asked him not to recite it aloud. It was hers and hers alone. He seemed disappointed, as if he knew she did not really know what he’d meant.

Then in her chambers, she’d ripped it to shreds. She could not read, could not understand a single letter he’d painted. Perhaps the other Sultanas could read. And she hated that fact. She hated that she could not love his words (hated that she wanted to love his words). She thought of throwing those shreds outside her window, or perhaps burning them on a candle wick. In the end, she swept them into her palms and had the maid sew each piece to the back of her pillow. 

After, she remembered being too ashamed to ask if she was alone-- perhaps even the lowest servants could read. She did not dare broach the subject with the other Sultanas, did not wish to give them another reason to detest her. She had considered asking the sixteenth sultana, if perhaps she would teach her how. The sixteenth sultana was so very fond of reading. She was quiet, graceful, a tall woman some years older than their Shah, and she never said a rude word about his favorite wife.

Perhaps because the sixteenth sultana did not love him. She’d seen her once, pecking a eunuch on the cheek. 

She hadn’t said a word, mostly because she did not care, but a part of her (she supposed) wished the sixteenth sultana would smile at her. But she knew that young woman would not want the friendship of a wicked girl who could not read. Or perhaps some part of her did not wish to taint the sixteenth sultana with herself, did not want to prick her with her thorns (and yet she was not upset, did not feel an ounce of regret or guilt, or even shame). Their paths, she decided, simply did not care to cross. Perhaps because it was she herself who did not wish to be tainted by the woman’s virtue.

She’d gone to the vizier instead. She’d begged him not to tell and he had obliged.

He had been so kind, she recalled, night after night as he guided her through the most basic of words. He’d assign her papers to read and letters to write, only mishmashes of sentences that were easy to copy. 

“I’m not a child!” she’d snap at him (though she might have been a child then), “you’ve no right to give me homework.”

She had been cruel to him, stung him with a scalding tongue. She’d yawned through his lectures and burned his papers. But he’d only say, “Ah, then let’s try again?”

He was the most patient (and only) tutor she’d ever had, wise and gentle and almost the father she’d wished she had. She’d wanted to tell him so once she’d learned to read (not perfectly, but just enough), and before she could speak of how much she adored him (like a fool), he’d asked her how his majesty was, if perhaps it was time to let the Shah know what they had been doing behind his back.

She’d giggled, for she knew herself the fool then-- he had only been kind to her for the Shah. He had aided her, for he thought he could use her to gain the Shah’s favor. And then she no longer cared how kind or gentle he was. Perhaps he did care for her, but she no longer cared for him.

“Tell his majesty and I shall have your tongue removed,” she’d said. And their lessons ended there.

Now she sat at the foot of her bed, feeling much like she had back then, a pawn among pawns that had never even been invited to the game. The vizier had tried to best her again, and she supposed, this time, he had won. Guards remained outside her door and his majesty did not even allow her a maid for company, perhaps because he feared what she’d do to the poor girl.

He was right. She had half a mind to murder the first person she saw.

The Shah had visited her twice, once to ask if she was well (she had not answered) and once to tell her he’d gone to see Erik. She’d looked at him then, and she knew his breath hitched. She had not mistaken the hurt in his eyes.

“Why him?” he’d asked, pleaded, “of all these men, why him?”

She knew her husband well enough to imagine how he’d act in Erik’s cell. He’d stand before the magician, peer at his ugly face, and ask, _“Why you?”_

Her silly crow would not understand. And the Shah would not lower himself enough to strike him. But perhaps he would stand aside, and watch as he allowed others to strike. He might feel guilty later, as if he’d taken his rage out on the wrong man. 

“He’s a traitor,” he told her. “He planned to leave us for Herat, for the Emir I thought he was helping me fight.”

“You don’t believe that,” she’d said, glaring him in the eye, “I know you don’t.”

Then he’d stood and said, “He is to die tonight. But I will allow you to keep something of his, and then I hope we will put him behind us.”

He had not waited for her to answer, perhaps because he did want to hear. And hours later, she sat alone, pondering what to do next. She’d allowed the anger to simmer in her blood, allowed it to seep in place of grief (she would not lower herself so much as to grieve Erik, he’d brought this upon himself). And then she decided she’d had enough of all these pawns slipping from her grip. She would kick the board away, whether the vizier or her Shah liked it or not. 

She had never liked to lose. But if she had no other choice, she would rather lose than let them win. 

Mind made up (or madly pieced), she drew her curtains open- they’d locked the windows from outside, somehow she supposed (bitterly). But she’d expected as much. She ripped the curtains off, tying them into knots of mock rope. She knotted it around the edge of her bed. 

Then taking a chair into her hands, she heaved and thrust it at the window’s glass. It shattered, dusting her hands with little slits of blood. 

She tossed the (once) curtains down, and facing the evening breeze, climbed out. Moments later, the guards would burst into her chamber. But she would be long gone.

* * *

Nadir wiggled into the shirt Darius had brought, hissing as its fabric rubbed the wounds upon his back. He opted not to button up the front, leaving it open while his servant shut the cell behind. 

“How did you get in?” Nadir asked.

The lantern dangled in the servant’s hand. “Your successor brought me in, not long after they took you away.”

“Did the daroga harm you?” In reference to another man, the title was strange on Nadir’s tongue, as if he was speaking of his own shadow and not a human being.

“Forgive me, Master. I weighed my options and decided he would have us killed regardless, so I said what he wanted to hear- I lied- and he pardoned me.”

He was distracted by that blob of fire behind glass.

“You ‘confessed’?”

“Yes. I said you were planning to sell Erik’s plans to the Emir. The two of you would split the profits and you would smuggle him to Herat. I only kept your secret because you’d threatened the safety of my wife and child.”

And Nadir could not help but laugh. 

“You don’t have a wife,” he rasped.

The corner of Darius’ mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “I know.”

Nadir felt himself sway. Darius steadied him with a firm grip. And as they made their way down the dungeon’s dark corridors, creeping past high walls of dust and stone, the servant spoke on.

“Then I sought out Kaveh and he procured this uniform for me. The daroga- as you can understand- did not trust him with guarding your cell, so the keys- I had to obtain through other means.”

He noticed the bruise on Darius’ hand then, a cut on his knuckle and dried blood on unharmed fingers. Nadir suspected violence at play and some poor guard felled by his servant’s hand. But he did not ask Darius to elaborate-- he only hoped the fellow lived.

“I’ve instructed Kaveh to gather horses outside. Once we reach him, he’ll guide us to the coastline.”

Had they more time to spare, Nadir would have commended Darius for his wit. But in the moment, he could only think of one thing.

“What of Erik?”

“We’re going to him now.” And then before Nadir could ask more, Darius added grimly, “Kaveh says he’s scheduled for execution tonight. Beheading. But his majesty wants to carve his eyes out first, a gift to the Sultana.”

This time, the (once) daroga did not sway. But he felt his legs turn to lead, a numbness taking hold of everywhere else. He’d expected as much, but the finality of Darius’ words washed over him like a blanket of soot. 

“Did _she_ order this?” he growled.

“I don’t know, Master.” Darius walked on, tugging Nadir along. “But his majesty has made his intentions clear.”

The face of Prince Nasser appeared in his mind, a small boy dozing upon Nadir’s lap. His majesty had carried out cruel orders before, if only to please his council or his wives. But he could not forget that hour by the fountain, when the Shah had promised- given his word and more- that the Sultana would not touch Erik. Then why have him blinded and killed? Was not one punishment enough?

Or was he so shaken by the vizier’s words that he felt himself betrayed? And he would lash out as a boy would, swiftly tormenting the one that he thought hurt him so. Or perhaps Nadir was simply making excuses for a boy who no longer existed. That young man needed no excuse (not anymore)- he was the shadow of god.

_“Stop!”_

Darius whipped his head back. From where they came, two men marched towards them, a third hobbling along, blood on his temple. The guards truly in the prison’s employ, Darius’ face no doubt an anomaly in their eyes. 

“That’s him!” the injured man cried, a finger jabbed Darius’ way.

The keys rattled by Darius’ waist. Nadir swiped the lantern from his grip and dashed it upon the ground. Then the servant pushed him ahead, both sprinting off as the guards fought to stamp out the flames that rose between.

In the dark, they stumbled past another corner and stole its torch. 

“Darius, which way!?” Nadir said, half a gasp as they ran on.

The flame bobbed in the servant's hand. “To the very end.”

Darius disappeared into another shadowed hall. When Nadir moved to follow, he heard a voice mutter- _“daroga?”_

And out of an instinct he’d yet lost (or perhaps that desperate part of him hoped it was his Erik), Nadir stopped. He turned, and found himself before another cell, much smaller than the one he himself had just escaped. As he approached, he heard the footsteps of Darius’ return, the torch casting thin light upon the prisoner within.

“Master-” Darius hissed, “hurry-”

“Wait,” Nadir said, almost stunned to stone.

He looked to the prisoner’s scraggly hair, a curtain of premature grey over wide eyes, their bulge a result of days without food. But he recognized that sorry countenance and its hollowed cheeks. It was a man he had long thought dead, the victim in the lion’s cage.

“You,” he found himself muttering, “this whole time, you lived?”

The man nodded. He bowed his head. “Daroga, her highness spared me.”

And again, Nadir wanted to fall. The Sultana had spared him. She had been so eager to feed him to that lion. It was for this man that she had nearly destroyed Erik (no, _had_ destroyed). And now he simply did not understand.

She had spared him, but left him to rot in prison. Perhaps to taunt Erik with his death once more? Nadir did not understand, he knew, and he never would. 

“I’m no longer the daroga,” Nadir told him, “we are not so unlike… anymore.”

The prisoner’s frame shook, his rags of clothing shaking with. Nadir did not know if he was weeping. Darius wished to leave, no doubt, but Nadir could not leave this man here.

“Why did she spare you?” he asked.

“She wished to find out… why he let me go. The trapdoor lover never lets anyone go.”

He looked up, a fresh bruise on his cheek, and no small amount of fatigue in his gaze. “He saved my life.”

Erik had saved him because no one else would. That, Nadir understood. The magician had not wanted any more death upon his hand, for he’d stopped being the court’s monster long ago. An epiphany that followed after a boy’s death. And he had tried to end the Sultana’s bloodshed, so he paid the price.

And it had taken Nadir far too long to understand.

“Is he here too?” the prisoner asked.

But Nadir did not have the time to explain all this to a stranger. He nodded.

“Darius, can you free him?”

The servant did not respond, but he obeyed, filing through his keys until he found the best match. When the cell unlocked, they stepped back as the man crawled out. He stood and stumbled into Nadir’s grip.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you.”

Darius tilted his chin ahead, an unspoken- _come, now_ \- on his lips. Nadir held the man in his arms, again gritting teeth as it strained his backside. Darius helped the prisoner stand upright, and when their steps were steady, they walked on.

But the servant had been right- the time they lost, however small, was time they needed. The guards were just around the corner they had passed, a flurry of boots and shouts. If they broke into a run now, they would still be within the men’s easy reach. Cursing under his breath, Nadir turned, braced for the worst. Darius followed his lead.

“You’re going to him, aren’t you?”

The man had spoken, limping ahead of both master and servant. 

“Go on,” he told them, “I’ll stay here.”

“You’ll die!” Nadir said, reaching for his arm, but the man shook his head.

“Better me than all of us.” He smiled. Perhaps he had always been smiling and Nadir had mistook it for an anxious frown. “He saved my life. But I’ve nothing left. I was a rotten man- daroga- scum of the earth. Let me die with dignity, then? I’ll repay his favor.”

His eyes shone, glistening wet. But there were no tears on the prisoner’s face, only the silent grace of a man who had made his peace with death.

Nadir did not have time to say more; so he gulped, and said, “Tell me your name.”

_And I shall remember._

“Vahid.”

Then the prisoner turned away, limping towards the sound of incoming boots. Nadir nodded at Darius, and the servant again ran ahead. Nadir cast the dark one last glance before he followed the servant’s lead, whispering a prayer for _Vahid_ as he moved.

Behind them, a shot rang out. And a body- Vahid- fell in the bullet’s echo.

* * *

They found Erik’s cell at the dungeon’s end, behind a door of stone so solid it looked like another piece of wall. Darius roamed his hand across the stone, pausing when he found the keyhole, a shape almost mistaken for a crack. After he slid the key in, Nadir pressed his shoulder against that door, and together, they pushed it open.

He did not wait for Darius to lead him in. Nadir entered first, followed by Darius and his torch. It was a damp cell, pitch black and as airless as the Sultana’s hut. And he did not wish to think of how Erik would have reacted to so much time within. 

“Master.”

Darius held the torch high, its glow lighting the four walls ahead. Then Nadir moved, every nerve pushing him to race forward, for he saw Erik at last, that outline enough to tell him who it was.

The Frenchman sagged upright, wrists shackled to the wall behind. As the torch came closer, Nadir made out the specks of dried blood and dirt on his robes, the fabric thoroughly ragged and ripped. He could see the remnants of gauze between each tear, unchanged and unraveling with bits of pink. But his chest was heaving- weakly- a relieving sign of life.

“Erik,” he said, more a croak than the gentle whisper he’d hoped it was, “Erik- it’s me.”

He cupped Erik’s chin, a warm trickle of blood staining his finger from the other man’s lip. And he saw the white cloth tied around his eyes, a line of red peeking out. 

His world went still.

But he could not break now, not when he had one last chance to put an end to it all. 

Fearing the worst, he snatched the cloth away.

“Daroga?” 

An amber eye opened, gold in the firelight, a small cut dotting the socket with blood. And if not for that immediate relief, Nadir would have balked at the new bruises upon his face, bits of blood still streaming from whatever beating that had transpired.

“It’s me,” he said again, “I’m taking you away. We’ll leave here, forever.”

“Why are you here?” the Frenchman whispered, perhaps still unconvinced Nadir was before him in the flesh, “you have a life to live, daroga- without Erik- me.”

And Nadir laughed, in spite of the lump in his throat. “Can you not see? You and Darius- are all I have left.”

Erik blinked, fighting for breath as Darius placed the keys in Nadir’s hand.

“Master, I must signal Kaveh now. Free him and join us- it’s a straight path left from here. Kaveh will unlock the exit from outside.”

Nadir took the torch as well. “Be careful. I won’t have you die on my behalf.”

The servant nodded. Then he slipped away, leaving his companions alone. 

“Daroga-”

While Nadir fumbled with the shackle locks, he heard Erik say, “I can’t move, daroga- it will be a burden to you-”

Whatever else Erik said, Nadir did not hear. His gaze flew to the state of Erik’s left leg, the knee twisted painfully and his foot limp. His right leg remained a dead weight in dirtied gauze. They had broken the one leg he had left. 

But Nadir did not have time to contend with the raging buzz in his blood. He could not act on his temper now. 

“I’ll carry you,” he said through gnashed teeth, “I will _not_ let you die here.”

“It’s not your fault, daroga… you can leave Erik, it’s all right-”

“I don’t care whose fault it is!” The damned keys were not working. Why? Was this the one oversight in Darius’ plan? Had the new daroga predicted their escapade and kept the keys to these shackles for himself? 

Nadir flung the keys at the wall, cursing as they fell. His successor was a cruel man, this much he could gather- why else would he chain up a man who only had the use of one arm?- but it was not a fair assessment, he knew. Erik’s reputation preceded him. Perhaps they still feared what he could do simply by being him. 

Rightfully so, he supposed. But he could not stop the rage from flooding in, a rage he now recognized as grief, a current of helplessness he could not push back no matter what he did.

“I said I don’t care whose fault it is,” he told Erik, an onslaught of words he nearly roared, “I don’t care if you think yourself an omen- if your legs are ruined, I shall carry you.”

Turning away had never been an option for him.

“If it rains because of you, I will bring an umbrella.”

He would free the other man, with or without those keys. 

“If you bleed, I will stem the wound with mine own blood.”

And he’d sooner die trying than leave without his Erik.

“And if you think I’ll die because of you- I will live to be one hundred and two.”

Nadir caught his breath. He believed everything he’d said, and he did not care if he could not keep his word. The torchlight flickered, Erik’s good eye regarding him with a wet shock- his mouth moved, and no sound came out.

But the (once) daroga understood what he’d tried to say, a lone word- _Nadir._

Nadir raised the torch once more, eyes flicking back and forth as he searched for a method to overcome those shackles. Then he heard feet on ground, steps so light that he nearly mistook them for breaths in air. He turned, a trail of flame whipping with, and felt his chest pull tight.

The little Sultana stood before them, her feet bare and covered with dust, the rest of her wrapped in silk. And the dress glowed yellow against the lantern in her shaky hand. 

A force of habit almost made Nadir bow. The mere hint of her face once had him on his knees. But he was not that man anymore. 

He moved himself in front of Erik, holding the torch ahead. 

_“Step aside, Khan,”_ she spat, pure venom upon that once-sweet tongue.

And for the first time in his wretched life, he said to the Shah’s favorite wife- “No.”

“I’m ordering you,” she hissed, “out of my way.”

He would not allow her to harm Erik now. Not anymore. “Why?”

She flinched, lips twitching by the affront he dared to make. But she did not lash out. With her free hand, the Sultana reached into her scarf, and from it pulled a single key. It glinted in the fire’s light.

“He needs this,” she said. _You need this._

Against his accord, Nadir replied too quickly: “Hand it here.”

She chuckled, a raspy sound much different than the bubbling giggles he’d heard at court (and before the chamber of mirrors, when Abed had died). “How bold of you, Khan! How very bold to think I’d take orders from you- you’re nothing, nothing at all!”

 _Your highness,_ he almost said, but Nadir refused to say it now. He met her glare and kept the torch in place, even as she approached. 

“That may be so,” he said, “but I’ve nothing more to lose.”

“You lying wretch.” She pressed her fingers around that key. “You would not be here if you thought so.”

She set the lantern down, perhaps because she knew better than to smash it in. “You’re stronger than the new daroga, I’ll give you that. He couldn’t even protect a single key! And here you are, trying to save a living corpse.”

“What do you want?” he growled.

Nadir knew she could not see Erik’s face, not when he stood in front. He was tempted to check the Frenchman’s reaction, but thought better of it- he would never turn his back on the little Sultana again. 

“The same as you,” she said, “now let me see him.”

He did not move. She sized him up with those lovely soft (deceptively so) features, a face as delicate as a blooming rose. But he saw it now, the storm behind it, the unrepentant bloodlust in her very veins. 

“If you think this tiny flame will stop me, you’re wrong!” she snapped, “I’ll walk straight through it and I’d sooner kill you than stop here!”

She pushed past him. Or rather, the (once) daroga had allowed a step back, some instinct telling him to trust her word- one final time. 

When he looked behind, she had already pushed the key into the first shackle. She twisted and unclamped without casting Erik a single glance. The Frenchman only watched, dumbfounded as she freed the remaining wrist, mouth open but lost for words. The key clattered upon the floor. Then he fell, limbs slumping forward as his broken body crumpled.

Nadir moved to catch him, and-

The little Sultana caught him instead, Nadir a hair’s breadth too late. She strained, struggling to push Erik up. 

He gasped, as shocked as Nadir. “Your highness-”

_“Parisa.”_

And when Erik met her- the Sultana’s- Parisa’s- gaze, she smashed her lips into his, smearing the blood from his face onto hers. 

The torch fell. 

Stunned, Nadir forgot about the growing flames. His breath stopped until the Sultana pulled herself away, a string of blood from Erik’s mouth to hers.

Hands tight around the front of Erik’s dirtied robes, she shoved him into Nadir’s grip, and lips trembling, said, _“Go.”_

Nadir hoisted Erik in his arms, careful of the man’s crushed limbs, and stomped the flames out, the soles of his shoes singing until they cracked. The Sultana looked on, as if begging them (Erik) to stay.

“What about you?” Nadir said.

“Did you not hear me!?” she cried, “I said go!”

Erik stretched his right hand out, trembling fingers almost brushing against her hair. But she’d stepped back, shook her head, and said again, “Go- go!- and if you dare return- I will have both your heads!”

And Nadir moved, half dragging and near carrying Erik- weightless now- with, the man’s shaking hand still reaching back for Parisa. Confusion flashed through his good eye, alight with panic and the reflection of leftover flame. But she did not move, only stood and glared, as if to say- _I will stay, I will always stay._

They parted with her at the doorway, the lantern’s cast the only light left to fall upon her face. And Nadir knew, this was the last they’d see of the little Sultana. He saw her rustled hair, eyes wild as desert flame, tears streaking down an angry face, and could not help but think of smoke. She was the fire after rain, still burning even when all else had washed to dust.

Erik’s hand fell then, and Nadir understood- perhaps this was how Erik had always seen her. Parisa.

And she shrunk in his view, until there was nothing left but the dark corridor of what once was. He shifted Erik’s right arm around his neck, urging the Frenchman to hold on. Nadir held the rest of him by his waist and back, intent on keeping his promise to the end. He did not care that they could not see, that they were staggering through the dark on weakened feet, nor for the throb of his back (and the new ache in his chest).

“Daroga, you’re hurt,” Erik said- perhaps whispered- by his ear, hand brushing the stain of blood on his shirt.

What does it matter? Nadir almost snapped, What does it compare to your own wounds? But he kept his mouth shut tight, holding Erik closer as they entered the start of another torchlit hall.

Straight ahead, Darius had instructed.

A straight path left.

He hobbled along, weighed down by Erik’s balance and the blossoming fire on his flayed backside. But he turned that hobble into a stumble, and then a staggering run. 

His blood burned, sweat and nerves exploding at once as he pushed them both on- straight path left- towards the very end-

To that end, they limped, the shadows stretching into nothing in front. But all they had was nothing now. Each other and the risk of more black ahead. And it was just as well-

He moved forward, and-

Erik cried out, perhaps calling Nadir’s name. They collapsed together, ears buzzing with the sound of a bullet released. Limbs leaden, Nadir flicked his eyes to the hole in the wall, a small circle having missed his temple by just a hair. It would not be long before the owner of that firearm appeared.

There was blood on the edge of his arm. The bullet had grazed him, then.

He wanted to curse, but his nerves refused to budge. And beside him, Erik released a muffled moan of pain. His chin scraping stone, Erik’s right hand pushed the rest of him towards Nadir, the sound of broken bones dragging over ground. 

_Leave me,_ he almost heard Erik say.

But instead, the Frenchman nudged him with those weak fingers and said, “Daroga, you- can’t stop here-” And wheezed out, “I can carry you.”

And somehow, that was enough to snap Nadir’s tongue out of its trance. _“Like hell you will!”_

Trembling, he forced himself up, and as footsteps gathered behind, once more hoisted Erik up. And he moved again, Erik on his back, hand clinging to the front of his shirt, Nadir’s palms reaching back for his waist. 

They stumbled.

And fell.

And stumbled again.

And when there was nothing left but solid stone in front, Nadir rammed his shoulder against it and cried out. The door shifted, and he was blinded by the light of dawn. As he collapsed, he heard the whinny of a horse and looked up to see his cousin’s face.

* * *

When Nadir came to, he found himself lying on his stomach, something cold pressing into his back. A strip of cloth bundled around his arm. He turned his head, and saw Darius rubbing poultice onto his wounds. And again, he squinted, morning light pouring down from between cracks of leaves. 

“It’s only been an hour, Master,” Darius told him, as if predicting Nadir’s question. 

“Where’s Erik?” he asked next as Darius allowed him to sit.

Dazed, he felt the servant pull his shirt back up, draping it lightly around his frame. They were well out of the dungeon, he was sure, but how far they’d traveled, he had little idea.

“Darius, where is he- where-”

Then Kaveh came into view, face hidden by a scarf beneath his nose. “I used to think you had peculiar taste, cousin- but now I know your taste is terrible.”

He took Nadir’s head in his hands and guided his gaze towards the tree ahead. Erik was propped against the trunk, both legs crudely set with branch splints, his left arm bound in a makeshift sling- what appeared to be a torn piece of fabric from Darius’ coat. 

The Frenchman smiled. But Nadir could not tell if he was awake or not.

“Daroga,” he muttered, perhaps too weak to say more.

And pushing himself out of Kaveh’s grip, Nadir stumbled towards Erik and pressed his brow to the man’s own, relishing in the feeling of skin on skin, however bruised.

“Erik,” Nadir whispered, “Erik- I’m here, you’re here.”

For a moment, he forgot all else, until-

“If you’ve finished kissing him, we have more pressing matters at hand!” Kaveh snapped behind them, “this is the last time I help you!”

 _Ah,_ Nadir thought, unwilling to turn around, _that’s what you always say._

* * *

Kaveh had little doubt that the new daroga’s men were after them at the very moment. Darius had hidden his master away at a narrow clearing while he patched his wounds, and when Nadir felt steady enough to move, Kaveh untied the horses he’d brought. Kaveh took the lead with his own, and behind, master and servant followed on two mares confiscated from Nadir’s property (and now missing from his successor’s stable).

And perhaps knowing what Nadir was wont to do, Darius chose the horse saddled with sacks, the weight of supplies from Kaveh and what little the servant had managed to pack. Nadir’s horse lacked a saddle, and between the reins and mane, he kept Erik settled sideways, quite sure the bumpy journey would jostle his bones.

Circled by Nadir’s arms, the Frenchman did not utter a word of pain-- he only kept his gaze ahead, thin hairs blown by breeze as he looked upon the morning sky.

And spurring his horse on, Kaveh said, “Once we’re to the coastline, follow it north- your servant suggests moving farther west, past the Turkish border.”

Nadir nodded. “I trust my man’s judgment.”

“I’ve found some poor corpses to take the blame for you. My man will smash their heads in and throw them into the sea,” Kaveh told him, “when they ‘wash’ up, I shall inform the daroga and proclaim you, my dear cousin, dead. And with you, the magician.”

“Are you so sure he’ll believe you?”

“What choice does he have?” He looked to Erik. “He’d be a fool to admit he let an invalid escape.”

Grass no longer stretched beneath the horse’s hooves. Nadir felt the tingle of sea breeze in his hair, pinches of salt in his nose, and the clopping of a hoof atop wet sand. Kaveh stopped at shore, the water foaming into sea for miles ahead. Grunting, Kaveh jumped off his horse, and trudging through sand, came to Nadir’s side.

“This is as far as I can take you,” he said, pulling the scarf down.

“Kaveh-”

“I can’t do any more, so I’ll say this- I wish you the best of luck because you’re a stubborn, arrogant fool of a man.”

Nadir smiled. He had heard Kaveh’s insults a good many times over their years together. Insults that masked fondness, this he was starting to see. And he wished he’d had the good sense to know this earlier, for now they would forever part. 

His cousin was a sour man. But he was a good man. This, Nadir had never denied.

“Thank you,” he told Kaveh, “you’ve risked much for me.”

“And you’ve always had a penchant for stating the obvious.”

Kaveh looked to Erik. “As for you- take care of my cousin.” 

Erik nodded, as Nadir said, “Farewell, Kaveh.”

But Kaveh returned his smile, perhaps because he knew they would never meet again. “Farewell, Nadir.”

Then, to Darius, the (once) daroga asked, “Where will you go now?”

The servant raised a brow. “I follow you.”

“Are you so sure? Darius, you’ve done more than enough for all of us. More than I could possibly have asked. And now- I have nothing. I cannot pay you as I once had.”

Darius took up his reins again. “When I came into your employ, I pledged myself to you. I fully intend to collect my salary’s worth, but for now- as I’ve said before, I did not do anything beyond my duty and I fear that I am the only man capable of keeping the both of you alive.”

Nadir gulped, the breeze a sting upon his eye. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”

Then, Kaveh watching, the horses galloped on, until the man too faded behind. And the weight of what had transpired finally slammed into Nadir’s shoulders, as if the world itself had rolled off his very back. There was no turning around, no remorse left, no reason to glance behind. He could only travel with the rising sun, nothing but sky above and shore below. 

And perhaps it was hours after journeying in peaceful silence that Erik finally spoke. He looked to the water first, then the rising sky.

“Daroga,” he said, voice almost drowned out by the sloshing waves, “I’m hungry.”

Nadir almost released the reins, caught off guard by that set of words. Then Erik said it again, as if stumbling across some discovery he could not yet fathom. “I’m… hungry.”

Erik laughed, a weak chuckle, more of a rough rasp than anything else, but it was the lightest thing Nadir had ever heard. Not unlike the song of wind.

“Erik doesn’t remember when he was- when _I_ last felt hungry. Daroga, I feel it now. I want to eat. I want taste on my tongue- I- I-”

Perhaps Erik did not know what else to say. Then he wept, tears falling free as he laughed, or perhaps sobbed. Nadir buried his face in the back of Erik’s neck, releasing a breathless laugh as his own tears found their way out.

“I know,” Nadir told him, “I know.”

He was weeping, he knew, but his smile was wide, as if a great burden had purged itself from his chest. It still ached like a healing wound, but Nadir felt that pain bloom into something else, a feeling that he knew- without a doubt- to be the pleasure of being free. He was- happy- victorious and relieved, and overcome with the urge to ride into the very sea itself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might notice that there's a cameo here from some OCs I made for another pharoga story ("Aroos", the fluffy polar opposite of this series) *winks*
> 
> That said, thank you all again for sticking with this series and all the awful things our leads keep going through! Now they catch a break!

Nadir had lost track of the days since their escape. In his mind, it had been decades, if not more, and still he’d felt it hours at most, the cool bleakness of that dungeon still fresh in his memory. But in reality- so long as his eyes were not playing tricks on him- he’d seen the sun rise and fall several times between sleeping and rousing. He did not have time to dream or wake; if anything, he was always on the horse’s back (Erik in his grip), only stopping to rest when Darius deemed their distance enough. Then he and Darius would take turns sleeping and keeping watch, the smallest of campfires between (before the breeze washed it out).

His mind would turn to the little Sultana as he sat awake, Erik in his lap and Darius lying a quilt away. Nadir would think back to her frenzied eyes and her lips upon Erik’s-- for one moment, she was not the cruel imp he’d always believed she was, but the bitter rose his majesty had so loved, the lonely girl Erik had served to the very end. And he’d wonder, if fate had been different (kinder), whether it would be her sitting in his stead, a haughty nose turned to the sky as she stroked Erik’s brow.

And he’d wonder if Erik thought the same, if her kiss had meant as much as the (once) daroga’s own, if- even after this trial- he’d rather be in the Sultana’s thrall, if he preferred the hum of her heart and that sickly sweet voice in his ears. But Erik had not mentioned her, not even once since their journey began. He was content silently nestling against Nadir (as much as his battered body would allow).

Nadir could not say he pitied the Sultana, could not say he wished her well, but it brought him an odd peace- however slight- to know she had only been human in the end, that somewhere in her cruel shell, she had come to realize Erik was more than a doll to break. He could not say he understood the Shah-in-Shah anymore, but his gut told him his majesty would not allow any harm to come to his beloved wife.

He would sooner abdicate the throne than see her dead. Perhaps he would see her confined to palace walls for the rest of her days. That was the worst Nadir could foresee. The Shah- the boy who had once been his Nasser- would not strip her of her title or anything else. 

Even if he knew she did not love him. 

And it seemed that a part of him had always known. He had tried to appease her, tried everything within a mortal man’s power, and only learned that there were stars beyond even a king’s reach, thorns that would not hesitate to break royal skin. 

But if Nasser had asked him  _ why, _ Nadir would have no answer for him. 

He could only say, that if nothing else, Nadir understood why he continued to embrace his rose, even when her thorns drew blood at every turn. 

“Daroga?”

Erik had no thorns left. 

“What is it?”

Nadir considered telling Erik to drop that title-- he was as much the daroga as any other man in Persia now. But he did not, quite sure this was the only tether to any semblance of the life Erik recollected.

Erik glanced up at the stars, hovering so closely they looked as if they would fall. “Erik enjoys being with you, like this.”

Nadir thumbed a bruise on the edge of Erik’s lip. They had nothing for the Frenchman’s pain, only enough provisions to fill a growling stomach. And that first night they’d spent along the coast, Erik had been all smiles and gentle laughs, eager to swallow whatever Nadir fed him and looking almost like he once did (a ghoul of a man, but a man nonetheless, not a ghost of grey).

“Where’s Mahin?” Erik had managed to ask then.

And Darius had answered in all honesty, “I had to leave her behind- this is no life for a pampered cat. But she’s in good hands.”

Erik had been greatly saddened, but when he learned Darius had left the cat with Kaveh’s wife, he’d smiled again. “She’ll be happy. That’s good. That’s good.”

For the rest of their journey, Erik had kept his good spirits, having accepted that Nadir would not leave his side. He was happy, even. And his good hand frequently found its way around Nadir’s own, clinging to his fingers around the mare’s reins.

Nadir did not know if Erik had processed what happened in prison, if he had undergone anything else to cause a relapse in torment, if he was even capable of understanding that Nadir was no longer the Daroga of Mazandaran. If he understood that now Nadir was no one at all.

But Nadir hadn’t the heart to ask- not when he himself was still trying to make sense of it all- and though he wished to speak of Vahid (for Erik, of all of them, deserved to know), he could not bring the words out. He did not want to remind Erik of the lion or the Sultana’s hut, or worse yet, Abed’s death (murder). He only believed Erik understood two things: he was free and Nadir was with him of his own will.

For now, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t. Nadir could dwell on their mental ailments all he wanted-- it would not change the gravity of Erik’s wounds. By the time they reached the shelter of countryside trees, Erik had stopped speaking altogether. He slept from sun up to sun down, ashen as a corpse and too warm to the touch. He had always been icy cold. Now his skin was more heated than Nadir’s own.

That was a good thing, Darius had tried to reassure him, it meant Erik lived. 

But he did not deny the fact that Erik was taking a turn for the worse. He did not correct Nadir when he noted that Erik had not yet recovered from his last beating (or the myriad injuries he’d gained prior to his captivity in the Sultana’s hut) before he’d been dragged to prison. They did not know how damaged his left leg was in comparison to the ruined right, what effects any more trauma would have to his torn shoulder, or if more bones had cracked or bruised.

And until the swell went down in his right eye, the Frenchman could only open one. He could barely see, let alone move, and Nadir again wondered if he was cruel for prolonging this torture.

“He’ll recover, Master,” Darius had said, “and if he dies, it will not be now.”

Nadir had not been comforted. 

And he had felt even more ill when they tore away Erik’s dirtied gauze. They could not change the dressings daily as they did in his home-- Darius had suggested using bits at a time, covering the worst until they had no choice but to replace the gauze.

The Sultana’s brand had healed, and perhaps it caused Erik no more pain, but Nadir never let his eyes roam over that wretched word for long. Most of his wounds from the arena had closed, halfway between scab and unruly scar. But there were fresh blemishes, abrasions and cuts that burst from skin, some the result of torn stitches.

Darius had been unconcerned with those. He had, however, frowned at the purpling clouds smeared across Erik’s chest. That same color splashed through his torso, signs of blood breaking from within. No amount of bandage could stem those vessels.

And now, as Nadir cradled Erik in his lap, trying to ignore the dying man’s ragged breaths, he only smiled and said, “I enjoy this too.”

“Ah. Daroga, these days with you- they were the happiest of my life.”

Nadir brushed those sparse hairs with his finger, gently combing over Erik’s bruised scalp. 

“No, they weren’t,” he said, “there will be plenty of better days once we cross the border.”

Erik looked to him and smiled, grotesque and lovely all at once. “Once  _ you  _ cross. I don’t have much longer.”

“I don’t wish to hear this nonsense. You’ll be fine.”

But Erik did not seem to hear his irritation. He only moved his head closer to Nadir and sighed. “Thank you, Daroga, for spending time with your wicked Erik. I think-”

His hand squeezed Nadir’s own. “I think I will die happy now.”

_ “Shut up, Erik.” _

The Frenchman chuckled, something weak in his pale laughs. And more to himself than Nadir, he said, “I love you... I think I loved you since Mohammerah.”

Whispered words, little more than a puff of air. But calm, crisp, and screeching loud to Nadir’s ears.

“What did you say?” he asked (had wanted to shout). 

Erik released his hand, arm coming to rest atop his own waist. And Nadir shifted, holding Erik up as he demanded to hear him speak again. But his only answer was a distant smile, Erik’s mind having wandered off.

“I should have told you,” the Frenchman said, as if half asleep, “but I was afraid.”

Nadir tapped his cheek. “Erik-”

“I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not afraid of anything anymore.”

And he fell silent, going limp in Nadir’s embrace. For a moment, Nadir held him, privy to his struggling breaths. But Erik was not dozing in his lap. He’d fainted dead away, and perhaps this time, he would not wake up.

Once more lifting Erik into his arms, Nadir stumbled to his feet and cried out, “Darius!”

The servant sat up, pushing his quilt aside. “Master-?”

“Darius, wake the horses. We need to go.”

“It’s one more day to the nearest town- I thought it best-”

“Erik doesn’t have one more day.” 

As the sleep left Darius’ eyes, he nodded, now seeing the cause of Nadir’s worry. He cast Erik a single glance before packing the quilt and rousing their mares. When they left, the campfire burned behind. 

* * *

Nadir had said his name.

He could not hear much else. He heard Darius (not Abed) speak, words that he knew (but did not). Nadir talked as well, his voice a low rumble, the sound of shadows upon a net. And he was tangled within, the name “Erik” touching his ear again and again, perhaps at him, or about him.

Another man had called him “Erik” too, in a dark room as he ran a finger along the skin of a sunken eye-  _ why you? _ He’d asked. Or perhaps it was a woman, a girl, pressing her petal lips to his mouth. And-

He- Erik- fell asleep thinking of oceans and clouds. He’d floated atop the water, perhaps bleeding through to the bottom, too tired to swim. His aches had ceased to be and he no longer minded the cold. There were no memories then. Perhaps he should have grieved, but he only felt a dim relief, at peace now that he did not have to think.

But there was one. A woman with oak hair, pulled into a braid behind her head, sometimes knotted into a bun. Her hair was brown, only black if one did not look closely, and when sunlight streamed through glass, one could even see gold upon her lashes. He mostly saw her through cracks of wood in the floor. And he’d felt dirty, for he knew she did not want him watching, did not want to remember he existed.

He remembered her hands, finger pricked by a needle until it bled. She had made him a gift, a piece of cloth flung over his face. 

“I’m sorry,” she had said (or perhaps he’d imagined she’d said), “I’m so sorry.”

He’d tried to touch her hand. But she was so far away. So far away. And always out of his reach, always in a spot of light while he lingered in the dark.

Fingers around his fingers. He would know those callouses anywhere. When the woman faded, Nadir appeared, a blur of color hovering in and out. Perhaps it had been Nadir talking to him instead. But now he did not know what Nadir was saying.

He felt hands on his shoulder, his skin, his stomach, parting him until there was nothing left. This had happened before, too many times for him to say-- toys were meant to be broken. He’d learned that now. 

But what happened after? The knife had come close to his eye, its blade pressing a slit into skin- bone- nearby. But it had stopped. And he had forgotten why.

Bits of him came apart. 

Nadir had said he was not a toy. And he- Erik- knew, he wished it was true.

And still more bits of him came back in, tied down by the familiar texture of gauze and cloth. The ocean was gone. And he lay back upon a bed of clouds, something thick above him. 

He- Erik (not the boy, not the corpse)- could not open his eyes. He had not expected to wake up, to leave that ocean, to breathe and feel the cracks of his chest again.

But he did. And in his haze, he heard-

_ “Is he going to live?” _

That voice was strange, something about it he could not place.

_ “Of course! Weren’t you listening at all?” _

The haze was clearing, brought apart by those bickering voices, light and foreign and unlike anything he recalled.

_ “Erik?” _

Nadir.

He opened one eye to a ceiling of wood, the other refusing to comply. He felt weightless, as if all the air and flesh had been sucked from his very bones. And slowly, the dull throbbing returned. But it was only dull, muted by the same slow lethargy in his brain. Something was atop his face- gauze pulled from brow to chin.

Nadir was by his bedside (a bed he did not know), looking rather haggard now that his face was clean of dirt and dust. Nadir was asking for him, for Erik.

But he could not speak, not yet, not when he felt himself cut into so many pieces and not yet stitched back. 

_ “Nerim, get father.” _

Again those words that he knew (but did not). A boy stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing him curiously with a hazel gaze, large ears framed by scruffed hair. 

“You  _ get father.” _

The voice came from a head behind the boy, a girl with the same hazel eyes. But when the boy glared her way, she- Nerim (yes)- marched out. 

Nadir was speaking beside him, but all he- Erik- caught was “Can you hear?” He lost himself in the warmth of Nadir’s voice, falling into its embrace like a newborn bird. And he would have been lulled to sleep again if not for the boy coming to Nadir’s side.

_ “Hello,” _ he said, anxious, _ “I’m Ibrahim.” _

Ibrahim.

He repeated the name in his head whilst the boy- Ibrahim- babbled. He spoke of many things, but Erik could not answer. Nadir did, somewhat clumsily, in his stead, and Erik again thought, Ibrahim.

Ibrahim was not speaking Farsi. 

They had left Persia, crossed the Turkish border as Nadir and Darius had wanted. And Erik remembered- all that had happened before he awoke. Then he managed to speak, not to Ibrahim, but to Nadir:

“You saved me. Again.”

Broken toys were never saved. He could almost hear Nadir’s voice in his head,  _ people are saved. _

* * *

Darius had offered to give Ihsan their mares as payment for temporary lodge, but the gruff farmer had refused. It would not be right of him, he’d argued. And in the end, he had agreed with Darius- it was unwise to move Erik until his condition had improved. All things considered, Ihsan was a kind man, if not somewhat talkative (and nosy). Nadir knew he and his family had whispered about their group upon arrival, but it could not be helped. They did come under curious circumstances (to put it lightly).

He did not quite recall how Darius had found Ihsan and his home, but he did remember waiting upon the grass while he desperately tried to drip their remaining water into Erik’s mouth. The Frenchman had been shivering, near convulsing in Nadir’s grip, and he’d feared Erik would die this time (a fear that Nadir had unfortunately become much accustomed to). 

Then Darius had returned with the farmer from Gawar and they’d carried Erik off together. Ihsan’s farmhouse was not far off and his wife had cleared a room by the time they arrived, their children gathering to see the commotion like curious pups. 

Neither Ihsan nor his Persian wife had asked the strangers how this came to be nor had they seemed to shy away from the state of Erik’s face. They’d simply sent their son to fetch the nearest doctor and taken to helping Nadir set Erik in bed. And when the doctor arrived, he had spent the day in Ishan’s guest room, setting the Frenchman’s bones and bandaging what he could.

But he- unlike the farmer’s family- had noticed that the worst of Erik’s face was not the result of some great injury. He’d frowned at the brands, but he hadn’t commented much more and instead told Nadir that proper rest was what they needed most; the internal damage was not as bad as Nadir had believed, though it did little to help Erik’s ill state. Then the man looked over Nadir’s back and stitched the worst of his cuts.

Darius had paid him with perhaps all of the only money he’d brought, and they were left stranded at Ihsan’s home.

“You’re my guest,” the farmer had said, offering a much needed pipe, “I can hardly turn you out now.”

Nadir had thanked him and his wife a hundred times over, still unsure how to respond to kindness after so long without.

And perhaps it was nearly four days later, once Erik had regained consciousness (and assured Nadir he would live), and Ihsan had extended their welcome, that Darius finally felt his master was calm enough to listen to what he had to say.

When they were alone, huddled in extra blankets and pillows laid out on the floor of the guest room, Darius locked the door and said, “I think it’s prudent to stay. Until we deem it safe to leave.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“I asked Ihsan if we may earn our keep for the time being. I told him we- you and I- are healthy men, hardworking and slow to tire. When you’re well, Master, we may start assisting him in the fields. I start tomorrow and you can join when you’re able- for now, Ihsan thinks you’re busy tending Erik.”

Nadir had never done a day of farming in his life, but he nodded, pretending to understand what Darius expected.

“Now tell me. Why does Ihsan trust us so? Compassion can only go so far.”

“That’s… the other issue I need to discuss. From now on, I will only call you ‘master’ when we’re alone. I told him that you are my brother.”

“And Erik?”

“My brother-in-law.” Darius scratched the back of his head, a habit Nadir had never seen before. “I admit- I hadn’t expected him to believe me. I said our sister perished in a fire, the same one that took the better part of Erik’s face.”

Nadir bit his lip. “The doctor had his suspicions. He saw the brand… I see no reason why he would not tell our host.”

“Ah, I bribed him,” Darius said matter-of-factly, “he made no mention of your lashes either.”

Something about Darius’ cool tone irked him somewhat, as if he still felt himself the daroga in some right. But Nadir knew it was fortunate that Darius was less stubborn than he.

“And this fire you fabricated- does it explain why we’ve wandered into Gawar?”

“We lost everything in it, Master. We had no choice but to go elsewhere- and it was most unfortunate that our grieving in-law was attacked by roughs on the way.”

“And the two of us did nothing to help?”

“He’d wandered off. It was too late when we found him.” 

Nadir was skeptical of this development, but he nodded along.

The Darius said, “Ihsan believes me for now. But I do not know how long until… the truth reaches here.”

“I’m still trying to understand why he accepts our story. It’s highly improbable.”

“Perhaps he is a simpler man.” Darius smiled, almost a smirk. “Or perhaps he is wise enough to know- the truth is even more unlikely.”

That, Nadir could not deny.

And thus, their time passed, nearly a month of unsettling peace. Nadir had no doubt that news of their escape had long since spread through Persia, but perhaps it had yet to reach Ihsan’s lonesome farm, itself a good distance from the closest village. He and his family were more than gracious, though Nadir felt as if their party was intruding on their peace. For Nadir’s sake, Ihsan would speak in Farsi, perfected by his wife. The switch to Turkish, however, was no trouble at all for Darius.

Nadir played the role of silent brother, keeping a distance from the family and spending most of his time in the fields once he could (once the lashes on his backside had turned to scabs, near scars), though he soon came to see himself as a rather incompetent worker. As the Daroga of Mazandaran, he could identify men from miles away- as a fieldhand, he could not tell the difference between each weed and crop unless one was rotting before his eyes.

“Our father used to favor him,” Darius would say when Ihsan laughed, “he’s never done a day of hard labor in his life.”

Maintaining the law had been constant hard labor, but Nadir grudgingly accepted Darius’ excuse- of farming and gardening, he had neither the skill nor patience. 

For his part, Darius made it clear that he would not allow Ihsan’s wife to do a single chore on their behalf. He cooked for his master as he used to do and tended Erik when Nadir could not. And when the (once) daroga was sufficiently tired, he would sneak back into the house and crouch by Erik’s bed. 

The Frenchman would be asleep by then, kept under the influence of draughts and no small amount of pain. His face was the one part of him that was visibly healing, but Nadir knew it best to keep masking his features with gauze, for their hosts’ sakes if not Erik’s own. Even so, Nadir would chance a peek beneath the bandage and then take Erik’s hand into his own, perhaps hoping he could will the man better.

If Erik had nightmares, he lacked the strength to make them known. His mouth twitched on occasion, but Nadir could not discern much else. He’d told the Frenchman not to call him “daroga” in front of the family, but he did not trust that Erik was aware enough to obey. So he’d scheduled himself to only appear at night (and a few moments in the afternoon, if only to make sure Erik would not soil the bed).

Nadir could hardly call it a long amount of time, but it was unbearable nonetheless, to force himself apart from Erik until the last hours of night.

Once, when Ihsan had given them the day off, Nadir wandered into the guest room. He found Ibrahim perched at the foot of Erik’s bed with his young sister, playing with a set of battered cards. Erik held his facing out.

“No, sir,” Ibrahim admonished, plucking Erik’s cards and setting them right, “this is how you do it.”

Nerim had laughed. And Nadir stayed at the doorway, choosing to observe rather than intrude. The children chatted (sometimes argued) of carefree things to themselves, and Erik, eyes shining whenever he ventured a reply (a short “oh” or “yes”). They asked him when he would be well, complained of their father (and each other), and told him of their mother’s favorite dish.

Nadir recalled another time like this, when Erik and… Abed had laughed with the servants’ boys under the courtyard trees. He had yet to forget how spirited Erik was then, a boy among boys, eager to play and please. Back then, he had watched- stupidly- as that boy broke apart. The children had left him alone once they learned who their beloved “sir” was, and for the first time, Nadir wondered if Erik had cared. If perhaps, he had only buried that hurt under nonchalance as he always did. Everyone had believed him a monster then (Nadir himself most of all). 

Everyone except Abed.

But young Ibrahim showed no fear, nor did his cheerful sister. There was nothing to fear from a man with only one hand to use, who could not even sit without his ‘brother’s’ help. But Nadir knew the reason was crueler than that-- Erik was a different man than he was then. These children had never seen the trapdoor lover as he was, haughty, tall, and garbed in black, as wicked and strange as hidden flame. Perhaps they would have recoiled from the demon then.

But the frail man before them was meek and sad, a wounded creature that inspired more pity than fear. And as they would tend an injured bird, Ihsan’s children latched onto Erik. 

Nadir should be glad, he supposed- but he only felt a pained grief. Because a part of him had hoped Erik would return, that the magician would regain the glint of mischief in his eye, that he would laugh at his own tricks and insult Nadir with childish jabs. He had thought- wished- that Erik would again be himself once he’d healed, once they’d left the rosy hours for good.

Then Nadir would know he loved Erik for himself, not because he’d latched onto him the way these children had. He wanted to tell himself he loved Erik not because, but in spite of being an injured bird. But the uncertainty won out in the end.

He’d slipped away while the children played on.

And when night fell, he came back to doze by Erik’s side. Without a word, Erik groped for his fingers in the dark. 

* * *

Ihsan had refused to take the horses, but Darius managed to sell them in Gawar regardless. He cooked for the family the night before they left, and Nadir admitted that in spite of the crowded table, he had enjoyed the feeling of peace in Ihsan’s home. Indeed, he had hated the fields for making him feel a fool but loved them for taking his mind off more troubling matters. 

Here there were only laughing children and a bemused couple, free from the gaze of any court. This was a life, Nadir knew, he and Darius and Erik would never have. They would hide forever, ghosts of a time that did not forgive, bodies of scars and whispers and nothing more. And so, he allowed himself to enjoy one more night at Ihsan’s table.

Nadir could not say he knew Ihsan any better than he did on the first day they met, but he’d made it clear he would always be indebted to the man. 

On the day they were to depart, Erik still spoke little, perhaps scared he would address Nadir by the wrong name. But Nadir suspected that out of them all, Erik was the one Ihsan’s children would miss the most. Ibrahim had wished “sir” well and Nerim had requested they visit once Erik could walk. There was no doubt in their young minds that Erik would recover, and Nadir found himself believing the same.

When the wagon arrived from the village, Darius loaded their little belongings in and helped Nadir carry Erik onto a stack of hay. As the family saw them off, Erik whispered something into Darius’ ear, a quick phrase that Nadir failed to catch.

“One last thing,” Darius said, rummaging into the sack he’d kept Erik’s mask within.

He pulled out a flute of plain wood, one Nadir barely recognized-- Erik had carved it himself on a whim in Tehran, the second day after his arrival from Nijni-Novgorod. He’d played it a few times for the Sultana and his cats, but more often than not, it sat in his room gathering dust.

Darius left the wagon and knelt, pushing the flute into Ibrahim’s hands. “Take care of this. It’s a gift from-”

He looked to Erik. 

Then, as the children proclaimed their thanks (awkwardly blowing into the reed), Darius hopped back beside Nadir and instructed the driver to move. When he sat back, Nadir returned Ihsan’s waves, lifting Erik’s right hand to signal “farewell” to his youthful friends.

Nadir was not sad to leave, but he could not quite admit to being happy. Parting was a notion he had become quite familiar with in the near past. And from now on, he supposed he should become used to it as well.

* * *

Darius had taken them to a land even more remote than Ihsan’s fields, surrounded with green hills and trees, the nearest village a good trek away. He guided Nadir past a stone well and towards a battered cottage overlooking what appeared to be an old stable. To the master’s surprise, Darius simply walked into the home without so much as knocking. Nadir followed, entering a space as unfurnished as he’d expected from first glance.

“Come, this way,” Darius instructed, pointing to a bedroom, “you can set Erik in here.”

And he pointed at the ceiling. “I shall take the room above.”

There were no other bedrooms to speak of, but Nadir only had one question, several actually: “Where are we? How- Darius, how did you even know to come here? I thought you meant to find an inn.”

“This is my home.” Darius walked along the floor, testing the ground and inspecting the walls. “I had bought it some time ago from a sheep farmer. I’d hoped to retire here.”

_ “Your home?  _ How long have you had this?”

And once more, Darius answered as if Nadir’s questions were no trouble at all. “Ten years. But I admit this is only my second time setting foot here. It’s peaceful here, good for raising a family or nursing old age.”

Raising a family. Darius had always been an enigma that it thoroughly struck Nadir to hear him speak of such a thing. Yes, surely Darius had ambitions beyond his profession, and again, guilt told him the man did not have to prolong his service under the once-daroga.

“Darius, I hope you did not give up that notion for my sake. You’re not beholden to me.”

“Those were ideas I had for retirement, Master. So long as you need me, I am still your man. And  _ you’re _ beholden to me until we can talk of salaries again, correct?”

His face remained cool, but there was a smile in his tone that warmed Nadir to hear. When they left the bedroom, Darius complained of the man he’d left in charge of the land, someone who took his pay and did the bare minimum of keeping the cottage clean. Then, concerned for the flock of sheep he now owned, Darius went to check, suggesting Nadir return to Erik.

Rather unworried for the flock, Nadir went to where they’d left Erik, sat upon a rock overlooking the pastures. It had taken the better part of the day to arrive and the sky was quickly turning a shade of pink. 

“I learned that this piece of land belongs to Darius,” he told Erik, perching himself beside the Frenchman, “at least now I know why he was so insistent on Turkey. It’s strange, you know. He calls me ‘master’ but it is I living on his generosity now.”

But Erik’s attention was on the sheep in the distance, clouds of white roaming grass. 

“What will happen to her?” the Frenchman said quite suddenly. “The little Sultana?”

It was the first time he had so much as brought her up. He looked to Nadir, concern evident in both eyes (that swell having healed to a dull bruise). And the lack of fear in his voice, the lack of even the smallest rage, made Nadir’s throat squeeze tight. But for Erik’s sake, he kept his own anger at bay-- the Sultana and everything she had done, was far behind them. And if not for her, perhaps they would both be dead.

As he forced the rising fury to die down, Nadir gulped. “I don’t know. But his majesty won’t hurt her.”

Erik took a moment to process his words. He nodded, relieved. “She- she’ll be all right?”

“I believe she will.”

Nadir waited for another remark, but Erik only looked back to the sheep, no doubt gladdened that the Sultana was well. Even after all she’d done. And again, Nadir could not help aching for him. 

Then the Frenchman asked, “Will we stay here, Daroga?”

Perhaps Erik wished to ask these things days ago, and only found the voice to now. Nadir put a hand to Erik’s back, absently running fingers down his spine. There was no one to see, and for the first time, it occurred to Nadir he no longer had to follow the old physician’s warning-- they had left the rosy court behind. At dawn, no one would come to their door and demand the daroga report to his majesty. No one would have the magician build a chamber of horrors or snap a man’s neck. Those two people were dead.

And they-

They were only two men watching the sun set while sheep bleated ahead.

“I think we will,” Nadir said, “for as long as we’d like.”

As the sun fell, his gaze traced a piece of silver lining in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and as always, comments/kudos are welcome!
> 
> Darius: TFW you guilt your boss into helping you jumpstart your sheep farming business dream. 
> 
> I had this pre-written for a while and wanted to wait until the weekend to update, but eh, let's just update now! This is the end of the little Sultana's story, but the series isn't over yet:
> 
> There will be one more story that resolves Nadir's feelings and deals with Erik's trauma, followed by a side story that officially brings things to a close.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And as always, kudos/comments are more than welcome!
> 
> This isn't the final story (though it should have been lol), but it is the last we see of the Sultana, the Shah, the vizier, and Kaveh in the "main" timeline; I wanted to thank everyone who's read, kudos'd, and commented (I could never had made it up to here without the support)! And every lurking and silent reader as well- I love reading thoughts, but I also deeply appreciate everyone who reads!
> 
> A lot of things in this series changed from conception to publication. I originally wanted each story to be a stand-alone ONE-shot (RIP me) and the Sultana wasn't much of a main character (just someone who popped in to instigate the plots; then the Sultana stan within me realized this was my one chance to shine a spotlight on my problematic girl, so all of this happened instead). Did we appropriate Phantom's final lair for the Sultana? Yes, yes we did!
> 
> Lastly, Vahid (like Abed and Kaveh) was also part of a cast of rosy hour OCs' I never shared with the world until now. This is the end of his time in this AU, but maybe he, Abed, and Kaveh will return in other unrelated stories.


End file.
